See Under by David Grossman (famous ebook reader TXT) 📕

Wasserman drew his story out interminably, stalling with every literary device at his command. By the time he finished it was 0200, and Neigel vehemently asked the Jew if he had had enough fun now, and if he would please continue the story of Kazik’s life. Wasserman tucked his head under his hump and informed Neigel with cautious intrepidity that he refused to continue the story. Neigel could not believe his ears. He stood up and shouted “TRAP!” [q.v.] and later threw himself on Wasserman and cruelly beat him. He cooled down after the (initial) bodily contact with Wasserman, however, and went to the little sink in the corner to wash his face. He brought a towel back for Wasserman to clean himself off with, and sat on the floor beside him. He begged him to stop tormenting him, and the battered Jew noted inwardly that the request had been made in agentle voice, as a plea for a personal favor. “No no, Herr Neigel,” he replied. “You will just have to make up another story for her, I am sorry to say.” At first Neigel thought he had not understood Wasserman properly, because of his swollen mouth and missing teeth. Then he looked in his eyes and understood. He drooped down to finger the strap of his black boot and asked in a subdued voice, “How did you know? How did you find out?” And Wasserman, taking his time: “I thought a little.” Neigel: “Yes. Now you know.” Wasserman, who did not yet know as much as he wished to appear to know, tried his luck: “You wrote her the whole story, eh? In the letters you sent her, you copied out my story, is that right?” And Neigel: “The whole story. Yes.” Wasserman laughed tensely. “Nu, yes. And … tell me … does she still think I am a … that is, a cur—a joke?” And Neigel: “No no. She says this is the best story you ever wrote. That is …” “That is what? What? Tell me, tell me quickly!” “That is … humph, you see, of course, that—” “What? What am I supposed to see?” “That Christina doesn’t actually know about you. About the two of us, that is. Humph.” “Herr Neigel, please, did I not hear from your very own lips that you told her about me on your first leave? You must remember, the time you went to Borislav and the mine? Nu? Well?” “Yes, yes, I told you, but you have to understand, Wasserman”—he chuckled shyly, with downcast eyes, fastening and unfastening his bootstrap, and said or tried to say—“I told her, yes, of course I told her. I told her you were here. She knows exactly what that means, because she was here on a visit once.” “She? Here?!” There was a note of disappointment in Wasserman’s voice! For some reason he wanted to keep this woman, so fragile and plain, away from here, both for her sake and for his. Neigel nods. Wasserman: “Nu, and so? Does she think that I am, that is, dead?” “Yes. That’s it. I’m sorry, Herr Wasserman. But everything became so complicated. It started out as a joke. Well, not a joke exactly, more like a game, I would say. It’s too hard to explain. And suddenly I couldn’t tell her the truth anymore, you see?” “See what?” (Wasserman: “Nu, now I understood everything, and without a bullet buzzing through my head. You have to point with your finger for a stupid man like me! That beast, Neigel! Obersturmbannführer Neigel! He sent my story to his beloved as though he had written it himself! Oy, an act of villainy unsurpassed on the face of the earth! Oy, I was wroth!”) “Listen, Neigel!” screamed Wasserman, “that is plagiarism! The worst crimeyou could ever commit against me here! Ai.” And he beat his chest and writhed on the floor, rasping, “Worse than death! You stole my story, Neigel, you stole my life!” And the German, standing at the cupboard, uncorks a new bottle of 87 proof, swallows without the use of a glass, wipes his mouth, and says, his back to Wasserman, “But I told you I was sorry! How many times do you want to hear it? I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Do you want me to go down on my knees? You have to believe me, I had no choice! Listen—” And he turns to the Jew doubled over on the floor and smiles obsequiously. “You can be proud of yourself, Scheherazade, because thanks to your story we are going to meet, Tina and I. You understand? She wrote to tell me to ask for leave right away and come to her. That’s why I’m going tonight. That is—in a little while. She wrote that things have changed. It’s been a long time since I heard anything like that from her. And all thanks to you, Scheherazade. Nu, now are you satisfied?”

(Wasserman: “Good Lord! Anshel Wasserman, conjugator of Nazi families! Now I understood. The notes Esau had been taking all along, the hints of difficulties, and that intimate incident he told me about, ct! And I sustained his failing marriage!”) Neigel raised Wasserman gently by the arms and set him down on the military cot. Wasserman turned away glowering. Neigel turned Wasserman’s face around. He searched the Jew’s swollen black eyes for a sign of forgiveness (Wasserman: “He leaned over me like Elijah over the son of the Shulamite!”), talking all the while. He reeked of drink, and spoke feverishly about his life with Christina since the war [see under: CATASTROPHE]. He said she knew precious little about his work, “and maybe she doesn’t want to know either.” He reminded Wasserman that from the time of their marriage until the middle of‘39 Christina had “her own troubles trying to get pregnant and taking treatments, and I don’t have to tell you what else. I think it was enough for her to know I was happy in the